


Dirthamen's Promise

by mermalerm



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Depression, Did I Mention There Was Angst?, Emprise du Lion, Exalted Plains, Hinterlands (Dragon Age), JUST, Like, M/M, Mages and Templars, Ninion Lavellan, Pride Demons (Dragon Age), Red Templars, Rite of Tranquility, Slow Burn, So much angst, Suicide, Suicide mention, Templars, The Chantry, Tranquil Inquisitor, Tranquil Mages, kind of, mental health, my baby, theres no suicide, why do I put you through so much?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8961586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermalerm/pseuds/mermalerm
Summary: Dorian struggles to cope in the aftermath of his love, the inquisitor, being made tranquil.





	1. Pride Itself

**Author's Note:**

> I kept seeing angsty posts everywhere about how a romanced Cullen would react to the inquisitor being made tranquil, but I don't really care about Cullen lol so I thought I'd explore the idea with Dorian instead. First few chapters are set-up so hang tight!

  Ainion's staff beat a soft rhythm on the rocky outcrop he perched upon. The wood resonated with an oddly melodic quality, harmonising with the stream's susurrus and the gentle bleats of the halla he watched over. It drifted, light but sure through the air, like a spell weaving a net of calm. But his staff was simple wood, broken off a tree to aid with herding, not one thrumming with magic, ready to make the fade manifest.

  The sun twinkled on the water and reflected a myriad of colours and shifting patterns on the hallas' coats. Ainion was shaded by the reaching branches of a tree, dappling him. Where the light touched his black hair it revealed the subtle shades of brown and red, and his skin it made the envy of bronze for its richness. He was smiling, happy, peaceful; safe. It was exactly how Ninion remembered his twin.

  He took a step forwards and instantly regretted it. The halla raised their heads and the few closest to him scampered back though Ainion's steady tapping quickly settled them, reminding them their trusted companion was there and would protect them.

  “You walk like a giant,” Ainion chuckled.

  “This is a dream.” Ainion did not answer his twin. He descended from his rock and then was beside Ninion.

  “Whats this?” He had Ninion's hand. The anchor was smoldering warmly in his palm, embalming them in a subdued viridescent glow.

  “I- it's the anchor,” Ninion replied. He hadn't expected the question and it set his thoughts in a jumble. A part of him screamed at him to grab Ainion and never let go, to say he was sorry, to make him understand how much he loved him. But he was distracted by thinking of how to explain the anchor when Ainion knew nothing of the Breach in the first place.

  “It feels familiar, like elvhen magic?” Ainion peered at the mark, then turned Ninion's hand over to see if it went all the way through. Ninion couldn't help but laugh at his quizzical expression.

  “Stop it!” he chided, pulling his hand back. “How would you know what magic would feel like anyway?” Ainion grinned and a flash of violet lit his eyes.

  “Well Deshanna always said I must have some magic in me somewhere to make the halla listen to me so. And besides, we are twins, aren't we?” He held his arms out placatingly, but the illusion was over. Ninion stepped back, his skin gone icy with the cold fire of fury.

  “You are bold to wear his face, demon,” he snarled, letting his anger bolster him with courage he didn't have. Instinct told him this was not a weak spirit come to taunt him, but a powerful threat he may not have the heart to fight. “You will pay for the insult you deal him!” The demon's expression didn't change but clouds swallowed the sun and the halla's hooves clattered on the riverbank stones as they fled.

  “Come now,” it said, and though it kept Ainion's form its voice was twisted and wrong. “There's no need for slurs or threats. It's a pity you wouldn't let me comfort you further. Every night I hear you crying his name out into the fade, desperate for his spirit to hear you. Yet here I bring him to you and you are not satisfied.”

  “Pride,” Ninion spat. “You are pride itself if you think yourself worthy to take his form. And help me? I'd sooner believe you were Ainion than believe you wanted nothing more than to help me. What do you want? Speak and then be gone. I have enough to contend with in my waking life without adding fatigue from a restless sleep to it.” 

  “I know,” it said, advancing on Ninion. “And I know how you hate it. How they all look to you and how the responsibility chafes on you like a slave collar. How worthless you feel, knowing you are none of the things they think you. How you feel you blaspheme through them every time you let them call you 'herald'. How you would throw it all to Corypheus if it meant you could be at your brother's side once more.” Ninion had been retreating but his back hit a wall and he was trapped. The demon's face was inches from his own. Its voice was soothing, but it sent chills crawling across Ninion's skin. “I can make that a reality. Like Dirthamen's ravens, I can guide you too him. You need no longer feel despair every time you look in a mirror. Please. Let me help you.”

  Ninion's voice shook as he whispered “What do you want.” He didn't know if he was merely curious what the demon wanted in return, or if he were truly considering its offer.

  “The mark.” As if on cue the anchor flared, lancing Ninion's eyes with stabs of green light, forcing them closed. “It doesn't belong to you. You don't even want it. It tortures you. Let me take it.” He willed his arms to push the demon away but they were leaden weights hanging by his sides. “You won't have to be their 'chosen one' anymore. You don't have to go back. There is nothing for you there.” The demon caressed his cheek. “You can be with me again.” Ninion could not repress his sobs at the sound of Ainion's voice. A hand gripped his shoulder and shook him.

  “NO!” Ninion's eyes snapped open as the demon roared. His breath caught in his throat half way to a scream as Ainion's face tore off the Pride demon, it's cruel, grotesque maw opening in a shriek. It towered over him, violent whips of lightening cracking around it's limbs. It's giant, clawed hand snatched him up, snapping his head back dizzyingly.

 

* * *

 

 

  Ninion's heart jumped a little as he plunged from the Fade. It took him a moment to get his bearings; to realise that the hand on his shoulder was human, familiar. Dorian's. He glanced over at him to see his face was neutral, but still caught a glimpse of concern in the silverite eyes. Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, he ran a hand through his sweat dampened hair. He was chilled to his bones in the biting Emprise night, making his teeth chatter. Even his organs seemed to shiver, though he wondered how much of it was to do with the cold. He rolled to face Dorian and tucked himself further into his embrace. Warm. Real.

  “Thank you,” he breathed into his chest, hoping it conveyed more than gratitude for being awakened. Dorian's moustache tickled his forehead with his smile.

  “You were struggling in your sleep,” he explained. “Thought you might need some help.” Ninion shuddered thinking how close he had come to being beyond help.

  “It's this damn cold,” he said, trying not to betray himself. “My Keeper always told me that nightmares and demon visits are more common in the cold.”

  “And I suppose having a great gaping hole in the veil practically over your tent doesn't help much either.”

  “I suppose.”

  They lay together in silence for a time until it became obvious that, between the nightmare and the cold, sleep would not return to Ninion.

  “Dorian?” He said as soft as he could.

  “Mm?”

  “I think I might go out and sit by the fire for a while.” There was a pause.

  “You want me to join you?” It was more of an accusation than an offer.

  “I would appreciate your company, but I know how you loathe the cold.” Ninion sat up and began to change into his warmer day wear. Dorian rolled away from him, cocooning himself in the remainder of the blanket. Just as Ninion was fitting his boots on by the tent flap Dorian gave an exaggerated sigh and threw the cover off dramatically.

  “Wait for me, Nin,” he said with much exasperation. “It's much too cold to sleep with you gone anyway.”

  “You just can't bear to be without me,” Ninion chuckled, tilting his head to watch Dorian pull on at least three pairs of leggings.

  “Yes, well,” Dorian huffed, fixing his newly fur-lined cloak so it hung just-so. “If you continue to drag me around in the cold I don't know how much longer that may hold true, amatus.” He bit the last word off sarcastically, but the crook in his lips and the way his eyes narrowed fondly belied his words.

  Once outside they accepted a warm mug of tea each from the lookout and sat huddled together by the fire. Beyond the camp, the malevolent glow of the red lyrium riddling the Emprise du Lion turned the thick clouds a dirty and eerie pink. But in the warm circle of the fire, Ninion could forget everything but the warmth of his vhenan next to him. The orange light emblazoning his skin a deep and golden brown; his wide and sculpted hands cupping the drink; the soft, absent minded smile crinkled his eyes. All of it shot a pang of love through his heart.

  _There is nothing for you there._ He leaned his head onto Dorian's shoulder.

  “There is everything for me here.”

  “What was that?” Ninion started upright. He hadn't meant to say it aloud.

  “Uh, nothing, just muttering to myself.” Dorian didn't look convinced but he didn't pry. Silence fell upon them, as soft as the falling snow. 

  “Nin, I always meant to ask.” Dorian's question was delicate, as though he knew it would lead onto thin ice. “What do your tattoos mean?” Ninion's hand automatically went to where the lines of his valaslin contoured his cheek and paused, debating to what degree he would answer. As deep as his love for Dorian was, there were somethings he did not - could not - share with anyone. 

  “I thought you would know,” he replied. “They are a dedication to the gods.” Dorian clicked his tongue in annoyance.

  “Yes, I know that,” he said. “I meant, which is yours for?” Ninion flushed a little, suddenly shy and angled his face to cast it in shadow. Proud and vocal though he was about being Dalish, he hardly ever brought it up around Dorian. Partly because he never asked, but also out of fear it would drive a wedge between them. As critical as he was of his homeland, Dorian was as staunchly Tevinter as Ninion was Dalish. On the surface he didn't want him to think he was over playing his elfishness to provoke him. On a deeper level, he knew how one question lead to another and pondered whether he was willing to talk about it – able to after the dream. But Dorian's face was earnest and... perhaps it was time.

  “Oh. Well, mine is for Dirthamen.”

  “Isn't he the Keeper of Secrets? Or is that his twin Falon'din? I always get those two mixed up.” Ninion was impressed, though he supposed, for a man of his learning, the Elvhen pantheon was hardly obscure.

  “No, you're right. Falon'din is the Friend of the Dead.”

  “Now I'm curious!” Dorian twisted on the log they were sitting on to better see Ninion. “What secrets do you have? It must be something good if you chose to have it tattooed on your face.” Dorian looked so happily scandalised that Ninion could not help but laugh despite himself.

  “Oh Dorian! For all your knowledge you know precious little!” Dorian laughed goodnaturedly and Ninion wondered if he could sense the weight behind the topic and was trying to lighten the mood. “There are many reasons one might pick Dirthamen, other than a literal interpretation of his title.”

  “So, why did you pick him then?”

  “You know the story? How Falon'din took the spirit of a deer across the veil but Dirthamen could not follow, and wandered aimlessly until he forced the ravens, fear and despair, to take him across to his beloved brother?” Dorian nodded, his eyes attentive and inquisitive. “Well... I suppose you could say my experience was similar to his around the time when I was to chose my Valaslin.” Dorian's brow furrowed slightly but he did not interrupt. Ninion looked away from him and took a deep breath, measuring his ability to continue. He had not spoken aloud of his choice of valaslin – of Ainion – for many years, but it was still raw, and after his dream each word felt like stitching a wound with no Elfroot to dull the pain. “I'm... I had a twin. When we were... he... he died. I was... upset” Dorian gave a bleak “huff” of a laugh at the understatement. “As you can imagine. Worse, it was the week we were meant to receive our valaslin. He was going to chose Ghilan'nain because he had a way with the halla no one had seen for generations. I was going to pick Andruil to match him. But after he died I needed people to remember I was once one half of a whole. So anything other than Dirthamen seemed pointless. I wanted to seek guidance from him on how to cope with the separation. It seemed so unbearable, but I knew he would understand.

  “My keeper wanted to postpone the ritual. I think she was afraid I intended to take my life. You know, to follow my brother across the veil like Dirthamen? But really, it was a promise. That I would do my 'aimless wandering' and that one day we would be together again.” The silence seemed oppressive and suddenly Ninion wished he had not spoken of any of it; made some story up instead. But he knew that to lie, to deny his twin, would have felt worse.

  “What was his name?” Dorian's voice was thick, but Ninion did not dare look up from the now-cold tea in his hands.

  “Ainion.” The name came smoothly off his tongue, though it had not graced it in years. When the silence returned he laughed to banish it and the tears threatening to spill. “I'm sorry, Dorian. You asked a perfectly innocent question and I had to make it all gloomy!” Dorian put a warm hand on Ninion's knee, his face serious, but kind.

  “Thank you for telling me. And...” the hint of a sheepish smile played on his lips, “I hope I make your wanderings less aimless... as you do mine.” Ninion tried and failed to restrain the wry smile.

  “That was especially mawkish of you,” he teased, glad the tone of the conversation was on to safer ground. Dorian returned with a grin of his own, leaning forwards.

  “Don't get used to it.” He rested his forehead against Ninion's. “But mawkish or not, I meant it.” Ninion hooked his hands on the nape of Dorian's neck and leaned into him.

  “I know. And you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Ninion Lavellan! My baby and favourite inquisitor. This is all canon for him and it's kind of thematically appropriate so deal with it. 
> 
> And don't you get used to the fluff! There'll be no more of that from here on in!
> 
> Crit is more than welcome, as are all comments :)
> 
> Soundtrack: part one - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQ0kh3k0LKE  
> part two - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BoL7uO55-g8


	2. Find, Destroy, Run, Repeat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party come across a seemingly abandoned camp...

  By the time Cassandra emerged from her tent, the grey of dawn began to wring the darkness from the sky and a pot of sweetened porridge was on the fire. She started at seeing the two mages, usually requiring borderline violent separation from their sleep, awake and fully dressed.

  “Good morning,” she said slowly, almost suspiciously. “It's good to see you two up so early.”

  “Thought we'd surprise you,” Dorian chimed happily, straightening up. “Your two favourite mages up and ready for the day! Isn't that right Nin?” Ninion gave a theatrical groan and flopped across Dorian's lap where he feigned loud, obnoxious snores. Cassandra just rolled her eyes and set about packing the supplies they'd need for the day while they laughed..

  “Morning fellas.” Varric's gravelly voice announced his exit from the tent. They turned to see him stretching his stout form and yawning widely. “Watery porridge for breakfast again?”

  “What else?” Ninion said, passing a bowl back to the dwarf.

  “Food's food I guess,” he sighed, slapping some of the porridge into his dish.

 

* * *

 

  The snow grew heavier when they set off, making Dorian grumble as he dashed them from his hair and flung his hood up.

  “So Magpie,” Varric said, coming to walk at Ninion's left. “What have you got planned for us this fine day?”

  “A continuation of yesterday: find red lyrium deposits, destroy, run away from red templars, repeat!” Cassandra scoffed slightly but Varric just smiled.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  They made their way methodically around the Emprise, skirting around the groups of Templars as they found them, reluctant to engage. It made for monotonous, tedious work, worsened by the ever thickening snow fall, until just after mid-day when they trudged, shin deep, towards the nearest Inquisition camp for lunch.

  Cassandra flung an arm out to halt them. Without a word they all stopped in their tracks and waited. The billowing red tents were less than three hundred yards away, half hidden by a large snowbank.

  “What's wrong,” Varric whispered. When he did not get a reply he added a tentative “Seeker?”

  “Something's not right,” she answered softly. Her hand went to her blade and drew it slowly from the scabbard. “There are no agents at the camp.”

  Squinting through the snow Ninion saw she was correct: there did not appear to be any sign of movement.

  “Maybe they went into the tents, out of the cold.” Even Dorian didn't sound as though he believed his own suggestion. Cassandra shook her head and began to approach, tight and ready like a cat stalking prey.

  When they got there, a goodly layer of snow was covering everything bar the campfire, which was but a circle of embers. There were no footprints, no blood. It was as though, one and all, the agents had just disappeared. The snowbank shielded them from the worst of the wind, creating an almost unnatural silence. Their footfalls crunching through the snow were the only sounds.

  “Look here.” Varric's call broke the unsettling quiet. He bent to dust the snow off an open pack. And another. “They didn't even take their stuff.”

  “What happened here?”

  “Maybe they really are in the tents?” Ninion nodded and started over to the nearest one when a soft rustle caught in his elven ears. He opened his mouth to call a warning and reached for his staff when a huge templar brute charged out at him, knocking him clean off his feet. He was stunned for an instant but still heard the crack of Dorian's staff meeting the templar's skull and the weight was off him. Pulling him to his feet, Dorian sliced the air with his hand and the blue flash of a barrier sprang to life. A ludicrous amount of templars seemed to spill from the tents, their war cries filling the air. Cassandra was already engaged with several of them and Bianca's familiar twang sang out behind him. Staff in hand Ninion swung it high, calling lightening to jump from templar to templar. Some stiffened and faltered, but most shrugged it off. A glance at his companions told him they were as tired as he from their morning of fighting and had hoped to restore their energy at the camp. There was no way they could defeat this horde.

  “We need to get out of here!” He called over the noise of the fight. “There's too many!” Before he could get an answer a sickening wave of nausea descended on him and as Dorian gasped he knew it hit him too. The barrier crackled and dissolved around them and before they could figure out which templar had purged their magic, another smashed his sword into the ground and the force of a Holy Smite slammed into them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but it was the only place to cut it haha! Also it's been a while since the last chapter! my bad lol just been so busy! Anyway, next chapter shouldn't be more than a day or two.


	3. A More Appropriate Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Ninion wake up...

  Dorian groaned as he woke. Every muscle in his body ached and they cried out with pain as he sat up. His head felt an iron weight on his neck and throbbed more than his worst hangover. The room was warm and dark, except for the gold outlines of the shuttered windows. The gentle sounds of Skyhold drifted in and slowly Dorian recognised his room. 

  Half a restorative was by his bed. He threw it back then forced himself to his feet. His body protested as he carefully pulled on some clothes, but he ignored it. If he felt this bad, he knew Ninion must be even worse; the poor elf had been in front of him and taken the brunt of it. 

  Trying not to hobble, he made his way out of his room into the rotunda. Some of the library's regulars gave him nods as he passed but he obviously did not look conversational; none offered a greeting. 

  The stairs proved a challenge and he let out a sigh of relief when he made it to the bottom. 

  “Dorian.” Solas looked up from his desk, pretending he had not expected him, even though his little groans and hisses as he had descended would have carried down. “I... Cassandra will want to speak to you. She is in the war-room.” Dorian nodded. No doubt there was some debriefing needed after what could only be described as a catastrophic fail. 

  “Yes, I suppose she will. Tell me, will Ninion be with her or is he as bad as me?” Solas pursed his lips and paused, driving the first knife of worry through Dorian's heart. 

  “I think you should go to Cassandra as soon as possible,” he said, delivering the second. 

  Maker, what's happened? He can't be dead. Skyhold would be in chaos. He can't be dead. He can't be. The thought gyrated sickeningly around his head, dislodging any logical one that tried to take hold. He staggered from the rotunda and nearly tripped on the slight step into the great hall. 

  “Whoa there!” Thick hands caught his shoulders and helped him upright again. A dark bruise encircled one of Varric's eyes and his lip had a nasty split in it, but other than that he seemed fully recovered from their skirmish. 

  “Where's Ninion?” He asked before the dwarf could say anything else. “Is he...” 

  “C'mon, let me help you to the war room.” Dorian wished he could push him away and run to Ninion's quarters, or stride into the war room and demand answers. But instead he gratefully accepted Varric's aid and they slowly crossed the hall. 

  “Why won't anyone tell me what's happened to him?” 

  “Probably because you won't like it. I'd tell you now, but the Seeker wanted to be the one. She says it's her fault so she should have the burden.”

  “Varric,” he pleaded. “Just, tell me if he's alive. Please.” Varric hesitated.

  “I'm sorry, but... we don't know.” Dorian's breath caught with confusion but they reached the war room before he could ask for elaboration. 

  “Dorian!” Cassandra's exclamation greeted them and she took over from Varric, supporting him to a chair by the table. “I'm so sorry Dorian.”

  “I don't care!” he snapped, causing Cassandra to flinch. “Just tell me what's happened to Ninion?”

  “I- he has been taken. Both of you were knocked out and Varric and I were fighting as best we could but... it was not enough. Just as I thought us dead, there was a call for a retreat. And they were gone. We could not understand why they would just leave us like that, when their victory was so close. But then we saw they had taken him. The red templars have Ninion.” 

  “Maker.” 

  “I was meant to protect him. I failed him.”

  “I don't care about your self-pitying!” He stood, leaning on the table for support. “We have to go after him! He must still be alive! If he was dead, Corypheus would have let us know. We can't just stand around feeling sorry for ourselves! He's out there right now! He needs us! They could-” His throat clenched at the thought of what they could do with him. What if the next time he saw him his eyes were clouded red and his voice had that terrible echo... 

  “I have agents scouting all over the Frostbacks and for miles around the Emprise du Lion,” Leliana said softly. As if it were meant to comfort him. 

  “My soldiers are scouting for him too,” Cullen added. “Not to mention slaughtering every Red Templar they find.” 

  “Only the inner circle know he's missing,” the Commander continued. “If word get's out... it would be a disaster.” Dorian pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and sat back down with a thump. Josephine's delicate hand squeezed his shoulder gently. 

  “I know it must be hard. But we are doing everything we can to find him.” 

  “You don't understand,” he struggled to say. “You only care about the Inquisition. About furthering the cause. I lo-” his voice faltered and he felt deflated. It would be the first time he said it. He couldn't say it to them and not him. “I can't live without him.” 

  “I know,” Varric soothed, patting his back. “But I think that's a little unfair. Sure, he's our leader. But I know a good many of us would be more than willing to call him friend. Myself included.” 

  “We'll get him back,” Cullen said, with more confidence than any of them felt. “We have to.”

 

* * *

 

  Ninion woke slowly and reluctantly. He tried to take a deep breath but his lungs seized and the resulting coughing fit had him simultaneously crying out with pain. The cold of the floor seeped into his chest and gripped his bones. His shivering gave him a constant, dull ache and his teeth were clenched so tight he felt his jaw would crumble if he relaxed it. They had sheared his hair, leaving his head exposed to the frozen air that stung where their razor had carelessly opened his scalp. Everything hurt, but the throbbing, bright pain of his broken nose bothered him the most. His mother had often said what a lovely nose he and Ainion had. He drew his bound hands up and curled into a trembling ball. 

  His belly gave a low rumble and he tried not to think how much time had passed since he had been left here. There were no windows. He estimated it had been a day and half since his capture but he really had no way of knowing. Dorian would be beside himself – if he still lived. 

  No. Don't think that, He scolded himself again. Worrying only filled him with dread. Better to think of nothing than torture himself with things he could do nothing about. Dorian was alive and he was going to be livid when he eventually got back to him. If he got back to him. 

  Before his thoughts could spiral again the door swung open with a shriek of rusty hinges. The light blinded him and he squeezed his eyes closed as rough hands hauled him up and dragged him out. 

  A bitter wind sloughed away what little heat he had managed to generate for himself and he felt snow parting around his dragging legs. When his eyes became accustomed to the light he blurrily made out the ruins of a chantry. From the design of it he guessed it must have been abandoned long ago for better premises, but though her face was half crumbled away, the towering stone figure above him was unmistakably Andraste. 

  “Put him there.” The templar he recognised as the captain who had performed the holy smite. His hair was thin and patchy, his skin pallid and translucent, showing clear the painfully red lyrium veins that honeycombed him. He scratched angrily at his neck where a cluster of lyrium crystals were beginning to break through. The thought of him repulsed Ninion, and looking at him made him want to gag. That the hands gripping him were also rough with the blighted lyrium made his skin crawl. 

  They swung him around then flung him into a hard metal chair. The captain moved to stand in front of him, a fire to the right giving his gaunt face a sickly glow. 

  “The Herald of Andraste,” he sneered. “Just looks like a backwater elf savage to me.”

  “The Inquisition will have you all flayed alive for this.” He tried to make his voice sound threatening but it just sounded weak and breathless. The captain laughed. 

  “Perhaps they will,” he said, motioning to his men. They began securing Ninion's legs to the chair. “But not before we give their “Herald” a more appropriate mark.” Before he could wonder what they meant, the captain held his hand out and from the fire he was given a brand. The sunburst glowed white hot and Ninion reared back from it instinctively. Hands grabbed him and restrained him with easy strength, fixing his head and arms in place. 

  “No,” he breathed, unable to shout. The brand lit up the captain's grin as he inspected it. 

  “It is nothing short of blasphemy that one acting in the name of Andraste should be so tainted with the mark of false gods. That you are a mage also is insult upon insult. Allow me to correct that.”

  As the brand descended, the Anchor burst into life, a violent green fire in his palm. Somehow he found strength to cry out. He called on Dirthamen, Andruil, Elgarn'an, every god he could until the searing pain and sizzle of flesh brought only howls like the Dread Wolf's from him. 

  He fell quiet. The Anchor's light diminished to a dim glow. A moment later the captain pressed the brand more firmly against his forehead then pulled it back. The templars released him and he slumped in the chair. 

  “Sit up,” the captain commanded. Ninion obeyed. “What is your name?”

  “I am Ninion Lavellan.” 

  “Are you the Herald of Andraste?”

  “That is what they call me.” 

  “Not any more they wont,” the captain chuckled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so first things first idgaf how long it would take to get from the Emprise to Skyhold. It's a day and half and Dorian was taking a beauty sleep the whole time. stfu. 
> 
> lol anyway so here it is! The fateful chapter! Comments welcome :)


	4. He is Safe Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After much painful waiting, the Inquisitor is returned to Skyhold...

  Despite the inaction gnawing at his gut, Dorian was forbidden to leave Skyhold. All of them were. It infuriated him how powerless he felt, staring out the narrow window from his corner of the library. No matter how much he was reassured everything that could be done was being done, he knew he should be out there too. He clenched his fists and turned away from the window. He couldn't help. He couldn't read. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He was just useless.

  It had been nearly a week since Ninion had been taken and with every passing day dread took better hold of his heart. He desperately wanted to go and let off some of his pent up frustration by setting fire to the training dummies with his most volatile explosive spells. But he knew Cullen would round on him for scaring the poor templar recruits. _Fuck the templars_ , he snarled to himself.

  He stood abruptly and strode to the banister. Solas stood by the wall, gently stroking in the blue of Celene's gown. How could he be so calm? How could he act as if nothing were amiss? Despite his scorn of the Dalish, Solas had always seemed rather fond of the ever curious Ninion and his endless questioning of the fade and his experiences. No doubt the old “Hahren” missed having a “Da'len”, but he thought perhaps he also counted Ninion as a friend. Yet here he was, painting, as though he couldn't care less.

  A small part of him knew it was unreasonable, and that Solas probably cared in his own way, but the days of sitting on his chair, filling up with resentment and anxiety, and the wave of anger pushed him down the stairs. He would have a confrontation, even if it wasn't the one he desired.

  Just as he reached the bottom and began to stalk over to Solas, the door to the rotunda banged open, startling them both. Sera charged in and ran straight into Dorian.

  “Oh you're here!” She cried, leaping back from him. Her face was lit up like a chandelier and she practically jumped on the spot. “Dorian! They have him! He's here! He's alive!”

  “What?” he said dumbly, then pushed past her into the great hall. He started towards the court yard then stopped, realising he had no idea where to go. When Sera followed him out he grasped her narrow shoulders and nearly shook her. “Where is he?”

  “In the war-room,” she answered, her grin wide. “I saw them bring him in! Came straight to tell you!” Dorian kissed the crown of her head roughly.

  “Thank you!” He cried, grinning despite himself. “Thank you Sera!” He set off at a run towards the war room, his heart thundering. He was safe! Oh he was safe and here and nothing would ever part them again.

  He flung open the door, startling all the occupants. He saw Ninion sitting, but he was mostly obscured by Josephine and the large form of Cullen.

  “Dorian!” Leliana exclaimed. “How did you-”

  “Sera told me,” he said, near breathless with joy. He made to come further in but Cassandra promptly stepped forwards and pushed him back out, closing the door behind them.

  “What are you-!” Cassandra shot him her usual no-nonsense glare, but the edges of it were tinged with something else.

  “Please Dorian,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “He has just returned. He needs some time to fill us in. And he is... unwell.”

  “What's wrong with him? Is he hurt? Where was he found?”

  “He is uninjured,” she replied. “He was discovered at the foot of the path by some returning scouts. Please, we will call on you as soon as we are done.”

  “You can't expect me to just sit around when he's right there!” He gestured angrily to the door, but Cassandra just nodded and held her hands up.

  “I'm afraid you'll have to. At least you know he is safe now.” He briefly considered firing a mind blast at her and forcing his way in, but the notion must have shown on his face for she dropped her hands, her right settling with false casualness on the hilt of her sword. He scowled and turned on his heel.

  “Tell him I'll be waiting for him in my usual spot,” he called over his shoulder as he strode off. The war room door opening and closing was his answer.

 

* * *

 

 

  It was several hours spent pacing in his little alcove before a runner came to fetch Dorian. He didn't wait for the boy to finish before racing down the stairs, taking them two – three – at a time. Cullen was standing by the war room door. His eyes tightened when he saw Dorian and he caught his shoulder before he could enter.

  “Dorian, wait,” he said, his voice soft. “There's something you need to hear before you see him.”

  “Kaffas!” Dorian exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Is the whole world conspiring to keep me away from him for every moment it can?” Cullen inclined his head, acknowledging the complaint but he did not release his shoulder.

  “There is no easy way to tell you this but Ninion has been made Tranquil.” He said it so bluntly Dorian could hardly be sure he heard it. The word echoed in his ears, beating at his mind. When it finally sank in his heart turned to ice, his whole body numbed. As feeling began to drag itself back into his limbs, his breathing came in rapidly, his hands trembled.

  “No,” he croaked. Cullen grimaced and squeezed his shoulder.

  “I'm sorry Dorian. He-” Dorian snatched himself back from the touch with a snarl. Did they not think what message they sent having the ex-templar give him the news? It was easier to latch onto the anger at that than confront the reality of what he had been told.

  “Save it,” he growled. “Do you think I want to hear anything from the likes of you?” He shoved Cullen from his path and finally entered the war room.

  Josephine looked up from where she was crouched by Ninion's chair and the look of abject pity scorched his heart. Leliana stood by the window and did not acknowledge his arrival. Cassandra was no longer present.

  He walked carefully towards him. The longer it took him to see the mark, the longer he had to wake up from this nightmare.

  His eyes saw it was Ninion but he could not accept it. His slender elven frame seemed tiny and fragile under the thick cloak they had wrapped him in. The black hair that flowed down the right side of his head, a waterfall of night, was gone; sheared callously leaving still-red welts haphazardly on the pale scalp. The skin that, in the sun, had reminded him of bronze, rich and brown, was wan and waxy; the full, dark lips that had seemed permanently curled in a grin were cracked, greyish blue and slack; the dignified, Dalish nose was now crooked and still bruised yellow and purple that crept under his eyes; eyes that were once a proud amber, bright and alive, now blank and staring.

  Most of all Dorian was drawn to the hideous sunburst, livid and inflamed, marring forever the perfect, delicate lines of his vallaslin. Ninion tilted his head as Dorian dropped to his knees before him but he could not look away from the grotesque mark, made all the more salient by the lack of hair.

  “Master Pavus.” The once musical, lilting voice was flat and dry. There was no meaning in his name, just a statement of his being there.

  “What did they do to you?” he breathed.

  “The red templars that captured me beat me and performed the Rite of Tranquility on me without my consent.” With shaking fingers Dorian traced the scarlet, shining skin of the brand. Ninion flinched. “Please do not touch the mark. It is still healing and can be quite painful.”

  “I'm sorry.” his voice was choked. “I'm sorry I wasn't- I should have been there.”

  “The situation was not one your presence would have improved. Please do not feel regret for this.” Dorian took Ninion's hands and saw the vicious purple and red marks around his wrists, saw how the fingers were still blue-tinged from the cold. And how cold his hands were. Turning them palm up Dorian bowed his head into them and took several shuddering breaths.

  “We will give you some time alone.” He barely registered Josephine's words, nor when the door closed behind them, leaving him well and truly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update has been a while coming haha! Blame college/life/etc lol
> 
> anyway this is their joyful reunion!.... haaaaah....... or not lol


	5. You Tear Yourself Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian has some unhealthy coping mechanisms and a couple of his friends intervene...

Once his injuries were tended to, and his hair began to grow back in, the Herald of Andraste was once again presentable, with a scarf to cover the evidence of his tranquility. Not that he was seen much around the keep anyway. Once it became clear he had no capacity to make adequate decisions at the war table, and he obviously could not return to the field, he stayed mainly in Josephine's office, sitting upright and patient in one of her armchairs.

  At first Dorian had been unable to stand being in his presence. He spent his days – and the majority of his nights – in the tavern, trying to obliterate the image of the brand from his mind. But it only made things worse. He was thankful in hindsight of the times The Iron Bull dragged him from his drinking – sometimes kicking and screaming – to the dungeons where he locked him in to cool off.

  Once the blind rage and the sobbing had passed, he would look around at all the empty cells, remembering Ninion's merciful judgements of all their captives. Even if he had called it pragmatism, refusing to waste what could be put to work, Dorian knew it was in his nature. After all, hadn't he also been merciful in his judgement of Dorian? What other man – let alone a Dalish elf – would have trusted some cocksure Tevinter mage, close to their immediate enemy, enough to welcome him into their inner circle? Into their heart?

  “How you doin' in there?” Bull's deep timbre carried easily though the heavy door to the prison. “Not going to throw another fireball are you?” Dorian rubbed his temples hard, trying to push the growing headache from them.

  “Not unless you don't pay me back for that last drink. I didn't even get a sip in before you knocked it over!” The door squealed as it opened and Bull stepped in, chuckling.

  “For your own good, buddy.” He unlocked the cell and stepped back to allow Dorian past, rubbing the black scorch mark on his arm. Dorian winced inwardly and grimaced.

  “I'm sorry about that,” he said, gesturing to the wound. “If I had any talent at healing I'd patch it up myself.”

  “Don't worry about it,” Bull laughed. “I'll get it seen to in the morning. And besides, I have thick skin. I'd worry more about whether Cabot will bar you after you set the table on fire.”

  “Oh no...” he groaned. “It's a wonder I didn't burn the place down!”

  “Well since the mages moved in, he's been keeping buckets of water around, probably just for this kind of situation. And you're lucky: one of those mages – definitely not Dalish – had the wherewithal to dispel your magic before things got too out of hand.”

  “Maker, I'm a mess Bull.”

  “Yeah, you are.” Dorian scowled at his idea of comforting but before he could retort Bull continued. “You owe him more than this Dorian. We've put up with your moping for weeks now, but it's time you stepped up. He would hate to see you like this, more than you hate to see him now. And he needs you. You know, all he does is follow Josephine around like a lost sheep. Sometimes she finds errands for him to do, but mostly he never leaves her side. As sweet as she is, I think it's starting to wear on her. But no one else is offering to take him off her hands. Cullen seems terrified of him, Leliana acts as if he's not there, and Cassandra get's distraught whenever he's around. I know you're hurting, but you can't let him be alone. Not when he needs you the most.”

  Dorian nodded mutely, his eyes stinging and Bull took pity on him.

  “C'mon,” he sighed, clapping him on the back with a giant hand. “Go get cleaned up, get some sleep and think about it. He may not show it now, but he'll appreciate it when he's back.”

 

  On his way back to his quarters, his mind still muddy with drink, Dorian thought about that. _When he's back._ The notion brought a vicious laugh to his throat. Bull, Varric and Sera seemed fixated on the idea. There must be some way to reverse it, they claimed. It made their otherwise comforting presence unbearable at times.

  _Let them have their hope_ , he told himself. _Let_ someone _have hope_.

  “Dorian, my dear.” He was surprised to find Vivienne still up and sitting in his chair as he passed it. Her long legs were crossed and in her dove grey, silk dressing gown she was the picture of elegance. As always.

  “Vivienne,” he answered, leaning on a bookcase, lest he stumble and reveal his intoxication. “What are you doing awake at this hour.” She raised an arched eyebrow.

  “I dare say your tantrum woke half of Skyhold,” she said, her voice smooth as the flat of a knife. “I do hope this will be the last?”

  “Believe me, Bull has already given me the lecture. I don't need another.” Vivienne nodded.

  “So I don't need to tell you how selfish and reckless your actions have been of late?”

  “No, you don't.” Her perfect lips curled slightly, but her eyes were soft.

  “Good. We all regret what has happened to poor Ninion, you most of all. But we hate seeing you tear yourself apart. Now go; see if you can't sleep for what's left of the night. In the morning get yourself cleaned up then come join me to break your fast.”

 

* * *

 

 

  The next morning, he spent a long time staring into the mirror. His breath had snagged in his throat when he first caught sight of the man that looked back at him. Though he had blearily glanced into it on the off chance he remembered to shave, he had not paid any attention to appearance for a long time.

  Dark circles hung heavy under baleful eyes, almost as dead as Ninion's. His fine cheekbones and proud jaw now looked painfully sharp, jutting out around gaunt cheeks shadowed with stubble. His moustache was ragged and his hair dull and all in all he was mortified he had been seen in this condition.

  When he was as presentable as he could make himself, he went to Vivienne's balcony, avoiding the eyes of everyone he passed. Even though just yesterday he had been content to stagger past them in whatever state he rolled out of bed in, now that he was aware of himself again he felt hideously ashamed.

  He started when he saw Ninion cross-legged before Vivienne, his head bowed. He made to look up when Dorian approached, but her long fingers firmly kept his head angled down.

  “What did I say? Don't move.” Her voice was stern but gentle in a way only Vivienne's could be.

  “I am sorry, Madame Vivienne,” Ninion responded.

  “It's quite alright, my dear. We don't want you to be cut by accident now do we?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “That's my boy. Now, hold still; I'm nearly done.”

  “What are you doing?” Vivienne did not look up from her work, but briefly flashed Dorian a pair of silver scissors for him to see.

  “Our dear inquisitor's little mane was getting quite out of hand, so I thought I would neaten it up a touch. We must keep up appearances, mustn't we now?” For a time the only sound was the whisper of the scissor blades then she set them down along side her comb. She gently turned his head this way and that, inspecting her handiwork.

  “There! All done,” she proclaimed when it passed her inspection. She offered him a small hand mirror and he peered at himself for a while.

  “That looks considerably neater.”

  “Yes, much neater, if I say so myself. Do come to me straight away when you feel it starts getting too long or messy again.” He returned her mirror with a nod and stood, wrapping his scarf around his head once more.

  “Thank you Madame Vivienne.”

  “You're quite welcome,” she replied with a smile, dusting some stray hairs from her lap. “Now, run along! I think the Ambassador would like to see your improvement.” Ninion gave a small bow to her and one to Dorian, then left.

  “Do take a seat,” Vivienne said, motioning to the one opposite her. He stared at the door Ninion had closed behind him then sighed and sat down.

  “Was that meant to be for my benefit?” Vivienne scoffed.

  “Darling please, that was for all our benefit. Do you think I could stand to see that spiky mop a moment longer? It's fortunate he has such thick hair, it's coming back in like a dream.” A servant entered then, laden with a tray of sweet pastries and jams, a large pot of tea and two dainty cups on finely painted saucers. They were silent until she had deposited it all onto their table and made to leave.

  “Can you have someone come later to clean this up?” Vivienne indicated the pile of hair fluff she had swept to the side. “Thank you,” she said by way of dismissal. When they were alone the delicate clink of china and slosh of tea filled the silence as Vivienne poured them each a cup.

  “' _Madame_ Vivienne'.” Vivienne peered over her cup at his words, her slender eyes carefully neutral. “Did you tell him to call you that?” Though he tried to keep his voice light he couldn't help but let a touch of ice creep in.

  “I asked him to call me what he felt comfortable calling me,” she answered. “I told him that he was permitted to use my first name and he seemed to settle on Madame. It's the one thing I liked about the Tranquil: they are very polite.” She jumped at the crash his fist made as he slammed it on the table, spilling the dark tea he had yet to touch.

  “Don't you--!” He did not know what had upset him. Was it that she called Ninion Tranquil? As much as it tormented him, he could not claim otherwise. Was it that she had lumped him in with all the others? Implied he was “just another Tranquil” now? Before he could rationalise his outburst she placed a hand on his, cooling his anger.

  “I'm sorry Dorian.” He rubbed his forehead with his free hand and shook his head.

  “No, I'm sorry Vivienne. I just...” He heaved in a breath and let it rush back out. “I don't know what to do.”

  “My dear, why don't you talk to him? I know you will find it difficult at first but you can't just keep ignoring him.”

  “I'm not ignoring him I'm...” he struggled to come up with a convincing lie to tell himself.

“Well whatever you are or are not doing, it's not healthy; for you or for him. You have never been around such as he so you don't understand how he now thinks. But as a circle mage I know how those made Tranquil operate. He's beginning to think he has displeased you and that is why you avoid him. He thinks you're angry with him.” Dorian stared at her, aghast.

  “What! No, I- How?”

  “Well if someone goes from spending all his time to none of his time with you, it is not hard to imagine that they are upset with you.”

  “But, I don't understand... how has he noticed?” Vivienne gave a short laugh. “My dear, he has no feelings, not memories. He remembers how things were before, just without the tint of emotion. And believe me Dorian it's very easy to notice when you are absent.” Dorian bowed his head and stared at his hands, clasped tight in his lap.

  “I don't know what to say.”

  “Why don't you promise me that you'll have at least one conversation with him before deciding you can't bear to be around him? Get to understand his condition and maybe you will find your own improve? We are only afraid of what we don't comprehend.”

  “Alright,” he said, leaning forwards to put some more hot water in his lukewarm tea. “But only if you promise not to cut his hair again.” Vivienne raised an eyebrow and opened her mouth to protest but Dorian cut her off. “I always did adore his hair long. I should like to see it grown out again.”

  “I can't say I agree,” she replied spreading some scarlet jam on a pastry. “But if it will make you happy then consider it done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slowish chapter. Tbh the next few chapters are going to be quite talk-y lol. There'll be some action soon I promise! 
> 
> Also thank you to those who have given kudos :) Much appreciated! x


	6. I Cannot Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian reconnects with Ninion

  Once he had finished his tea and eaten enough to satisfy Vivienne, he excused himself and headed to Josephine's office. As usual she was in the middle of penning some important missive, but a quick look around told Dorian that Ninion was not present. After a concerned glance at his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, the Ambassador explained with a mix of relief and guilt that Blackwall had acquired him for the day and that he could be found at the stables.

  He had not expected it of the old Warden. He was a gruff fellow of roughly hewn manners, but not a bad man. His gentle heart was apparent in the way he was directing Ninion's hands around a block of wood with hammer and chisel. The elf's eyes were the most focused Dorian had seen them since he had returned. Not that he had seen them much, he realised with a pang of guilt.

  Like Vivienne had said, his raven hair was growing back quickly, and his skin had some of it's vitality again. His nose had been healed and set and, though a slight shadow of bruising remained, the break would hardly be visible at all. A small smile was fixed on his lips. With the blue and gold headscarf concealing the brand it was easy to forget he was no longer whole. Then he caught sight of Dorian watching and the vacancy in his eyes twisted his gut.

  “Hello Master Pavus.” Blackwall looked up with surprise then scowled.

  “Nice of you to finally visit,” he said pointedly. Though Dorian doubted Ninion would be able to grasp sarcasm anymore, he avoided verbally tearing into Blackwall for his sake.

  “What's this you're making?” He asked, ignoring the Warden and coming to stand by Ninion to inspect his work. It was still too rugged for him to make out what it was meant to be. Ninion put a hand on it and, if he didn't know better, Dorian could have sworn he looked proud.

  “It will be a halla when it is complete. I do not anticipate it being particularly well crafted as this is only the third time I have had instruction from Warden Blackwall. He says that the children won't mind if it looks strange.” Dorian raised an eyebrow at Blackwall for explanation.

  “He wouldn't do it if I didn't give him a reason. I explained that some of the kitchen staff had little children with them and that they'd had to leave their toys behind in Haven so new ones were required for them.” From his tone, Dorian knew not to reveal that the children running about Skyhold were spoilt for toys by many of the returning agents and scouts who visited market places specifically for them on their jobs.

  “Well, I think it's coming along just fine.” Dorian gave the soon-to-be halla a small pat. “It's awfully good of Warden Blackwall to offer to teach you.” It was as close as he would get to saying thank you. He couldn't bare to admit this brash, slovenly man had done what he hadn't been able to from the beginning. Ninion nodded.

  “He said I should get out from under Lady Montilyet's feet and do something useful. And I agree. I was rather unproductive.” Blackwall winced at the harshness of his words and Dorian rounded on him.

  “Why would you say something like that to him!”

  “I didn't say it to him! I said it to Josephine! I- … I didn't think he'd pay it any mind!”

  “He's Tranquil! Not deaf!” The word tripped a little on his tongue and he felt like a sham defending him when he himself did not fully comprehend Tranquility.

  “Well unkind or not, it's more than you've said to him since the day he got back!”

  “I regret that my words have caused you to row.” Both of them turned as Ninion spoke, the quiet words cutting through their heated ones with ease. His little smile was gone. “Please allow me to apologise.”

  “Oh Nin,” Dorian sighed, taking Ninion's hands in his. “Don't you dare. You have nothing to be sorry about. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I haven't even said a word to you for weeks. It is I who should ask your forgiveness.”

  “You have not caused me any inconvenience, nor offence. You need not apologise.” He knew he did not – knew he could not – mean the words spitefully, but they stung none the less. His presence would have been an inconvenience. He pushed away the thought and the guilt.

  “I would love it a great deal if you could visit me in the library after you are finished here,” he said awkwardly. How did one speak to a tranquil you loved? “Is that alright?” Ninion nodded and removed his hands from Dorian's to return to his work.

  “I shall come to you as soon as I am able, Master Pavus.”

  “Please!” The word came out more desperate than Dorian intended and he coughed to cover it up. “Ninion, please, call me Dorian.”

  “Of course,” he replied, inclining his head. “As you wish Dorian.” Somehow that sounded worse.

 

* * *

 

 

  “You wished to speak to me.” Dorian looked up from the book he had been trying and failing to pay attention to. He smiled at Ninion and motioned to the chair he had pulled over for him. Once they were both seated he took a deep breath.

  “Ninion. You're not angry are you? That I neglected you these past weeks?”

  “No,” came the immediate response. “I cannot feel anger. Nor any emotion. I simply noted your absence.” He paused. “I did perceive that you showed considerable grief when I returned. I hope I did not cause you such distress that you could not speak to me. That was not my intention.” Dorian chuckled, though he felt more like crying.

  “A little distress, yes, but not caused by you, don't worry. In any case, whether you accept my apology or not, I am the most sorry a man can be. I should never have left you so long.

  “Tell me, how do you feel about Ainion?” Ninion tilted his head in thought. The gesture, once so familiar and charming, felt like a mockery now.

  “I know that before the Rite I often felt tremendous sadness for his loss. I regret that he is no longer alive.”

  “And nothing more?” He almost felt cruel, testing him like this.

  “No.” He knew he should not ask but he had to know.

  “What about... do you remember when... before you were... made tranquil. Do you remember me? How you felt about me?” Ninion blinked.

  “I recall that we were intimate. And that I had a great fondness for you. When I thought of you I called you ma vhenan, which is an expression of great love in elven. I felt sad when I was not in your company and when you were ever hurt I was scared.”

  “And now?” He knew the answer, and knew too that it would hurt him. But he could not stop himself from asking.

  “I am not capable of what I once felt for you. I cannot love you.” Dorian could barely breath for the hand of grief that seized his chest and drew tears to his eyes. He pulled Ninion close and pressed their foreheads together, like they used to. Only now the ridges of the brand were between them.

  “You're meant to be Dirthamen,” he said, unable to prevent the waver in his voice. “Why then, have _you_ gone where I cannot follow? ”  

 

* * *

 

 

  Despite the pain it caused him, the next few weeks Dorian largely claimed Ninion's time. He had initially taken him to the library and read aloud to him. But even though Tranquil could not feel bored, his staring aimlessly out of the window alerted Dorian that he was not interested in Ancient Tevinter Architecture Through the Ages. He couldn't stand to see him so empty.

  “What did he like as a mage?” Helisma asked. At first he had felt awkward and unnerved speaking to her, more so for asking her advice - “for a friend, of course”. But she had proved indispensable at answering the questions he could not bring himself to ask Ninion. “I cannot say for sure why I prefer tasks that centre on the study of creatures, but I recall a fondness for animals before the rite. Perhaps if you set him to a task similar to what he enjoyed before you will find him more alert.”

  So the next day he took Ninion to the gardens. There he spent the day watching him tend to the plants and harvesting herbs, stopping only for the mid-day meal. When the sun was low enough to cast the whole garden into shadow, he returned to the bench Dorian was observing from with a handful of odd trinkets.

  “These must have been dropped by visitors to the garden,” he explained, smiling as he handed Dorian a battered sovereign, a wooden whistle on a red string, a bejewelled hair pin and a little mabari figurine.

  “Good find! Varric was right, you really are a little magpie!” He was painfully aware how condescending he sounded, but he could not bring himself to talk normally to Ninion. If he pretended he was just a strange child he was caring for until he grew up it made it feel as though his condition was not so permanent. Even approaching the fact that this was forever made Dorian want to clutch at his chest with the pain it brought him.

  Watching him pack away the herbs he had gathered, Dorian wondered how such a rite could ever be allowed. It had been many many years since it had last been applied in Tevinter – certainly not in his lifetime. It seemed barbaric. He wanted to find whoever had first discovered it and throw them into the hottest inferno he could conjure. Surely death was a mercy compared to this empty existence, if not for the sufferer then those around him?

  Ninion looked up then and, even though the smile was fake, Dorian knew he could never wish death on him. It was a selfish thought that, even if he were not as he remembered him, he did not deserve to live for Dorian's comfort. Heedless of those still in the gardens, he rose and pulled Ninion into a tight embrace.

  “I will never let anything hurt you again,” he whispered into his hair, now long enough to be pulled back into a tail. Ninion shifted a little.

  “I will stay away from the rose bushes if you want,” he said, his voice muffled by Dorian's shoulder. “The thorns can be quite sharp.” He hadn't meant it as a joke, but Dorian laughed regardless. Somehow it made him feel as though a part of Ninion, some shred of his humour, remained, despite how he knew it could not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while! New chapter will be up soon I promise! 
> 
> And sorry not much happens in this chapter! lol The next one will be more exciting ;)


	7. The Battle Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas has a plan and Dorian isn't happy

  “Send him out into the field? Surely you can't be serious!” Solas raised an eyebrow at Dorian's outburst, clearly unhappy at being interrupted.

  “I am,” he said[(*)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B_XuPXGMpLA). “And if you'd let me finish you'd see why.

  “I spoke to some of the Tranquil that have been with us since haven and a few of them told me something that has sparked my curiosity. They recounted – with difficulty I must add – that when Corypheus attacked, the Anchor on Ninion's hand was alight and those that were nearby have told me they could recall the slightest touch of emotion for just a moment, then it was gone when Ninion was.

  “Therefore, I theorise that the Anchor may have the ability to reverse the effects of Tranquility – even if only temporarily.”

  “How?” Dorian did not want to let himself believe it. He could not. If Solas were wrong he could not take the disappointment. But a tendril of the thought curled around his heart and whispered _what if_?

  “Well, as no doubt you will have experienced yourself, the Anchor sometimes reacted to Ninion's emotions on it's own, but without fail it always activated near a rift. Given that the Anchor is tied to the fade and the Rite of Tranquility is a severing of the connection between a mage and the fade, it is not far out-with the realm of possibility that being near one of the fade rifts will cause that connection to return. If it happened even slightly to a normal Tranquil just standing close by while the Anchor was active, imagine what it will do for the very wielder of it?” Dorian could hardly breath with hope. Could it be that simple? Just stroll up to a fade rift and have Ninon back?

  “And it would kill two birds with one stone: we could test my theory and close a rift at the same time. What do you think, da'len?” Ninion looked up from his work. He was seated in the chair at Solas' desk, writing a list of everything he had collected that day in the garden.

  “I do not find myself with any particular thought on the matter, Hahren,” he intoned. “If you require me to travel to one of the fade rifts I will, but I am equally happy here.” Dorian scowled

  “But you're not happy are you?” Ninion bowed his head.

  “No,” he agreed. “It was but a turn of phrase.”

  “That's why we want you to try out the Anchor for us,” Dorian explained. “So that you can be happy again.” Ninion seemed to think about it.

  “I do not find myself in great need of emotions again.” This surprised Dorian and Solas both, judging by the look they exchanged. “I was often depressed, due to the loss of my twin, and under a lot of stress as inquisitor. I did enjoy some things, such as your company Dorian, but I find that without such distractions I have become much more productive.” He gestured to the list he had neatly penned – nothing like his old scrawling hand. “Though I always gathered and collected materials and trinkets when we travelled, I never organised them or put the majority to use. Sometimes I was too afraid to use them in case they were needed later, others I simply could not bring myself to part with, regardless of it's value or how useful it was. Now my mind is clear and I find I can be much more efficient with my finds.”

  “I can't believe I'm hearing this,” Dorian muttered, trying not to let on how each of Ninion's words was like a needle in his heart. “You're saying you'd rather stay Tranquil?” There was a pause.

  “Only that I am content with my condition at present.”

  “What about me? Doesn't any part of you care if I'm content?”

  “Dorian.” Solas' voice was warning and chastising, but the words were already out.

  “Of course.” It wasn't offence, but a disgruntled look passed over Ninion's face. “I hope that my actions are to your satisfaction and I would regret any discontent brought about by my cause.”

  “That's not what I-” Dorian cut himself off with a frustrated sigh and stalked away from both elves, rubbing his eyes with fore finger and thumb. Ninion looked up at Solas with confusion.

  “I apologise Hahren, but I do not understand. I have already said I will go if you wish me to. Is there something else Master Pavus requires of me?” Solas gave a sad smile and patted Ninion's shoulder.

  “No, Da'len, not precisely. I think he would just like it if you too wished to go, rather than only because we ask it of you.”

  “Oh.” Ninion inspected his hands for a moment. “Then perhaps tell him that I do wish to go, for I wish to please him.” Solas' smile twisted higher at one side.

  “I'm sure he'll love to hear that.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Dorian grimaced at Bull's words but did not take his eyes off the cluster of wisps in the distance.

  “This one seems safer,” Varric answered, peering through a spyglass. “I can't see anything but the weaker demons.” He passed the glass to Dorian. The rift pulsated, both with smooth motions and jagged projections, splintering the air around it with it's raw energy. It was relatively diminutive - perhaps half his height, and about eight feet above the ground - the smallest they had scouted so far. Not to mention the most sparsely populated. The first few they had found in the verdant hills of the Hinterlands, that Ninion had not already sealed, they promptly passed by as Fear and even Pride demons stalked below them. It had been agreed they would try to engage in as little combat as possible. Once the demons already present were vanquished they would have precious few seconds before the next wave materialised, then only minutes for the rift to be closed before more clawed their way through. The less time spent fighting, the more they had to observe the rift's affect on Ninion. Their group was a little larger than what usually accompanied the Inquisitor. Cassandra and Solas' place was obvious, but the Iron bull and Varric had insisted on coming.

  “I think we should go for it,” Varric said. “The last rift we passed was an hour ago and the day ain't getting any longer. I think this is as calm as we're going to get.” Cassandra pursed her lips but eventually let out a sigh and a terse nod. “So whats the battle plan Seeker?”

  “Bull and I will try to herd those wispy demons into that indent in the cliff side and take care of them there. Varric, you will provide cover from that ledge and pick off any wraiths that slip away. Solas, make sure you get Bull and I in your barrier then focus on those two shades. Dorian, stay back with the Inquisitor, be ready with your barrier when Solas' fades and keep your fire spells coming.”

  “Alright, is everyone ready?” Dorian nodded along with Varric and Solas. Bull just shook his head and shuddered.

  “You better appreciate this when you're better, boss,” he said to Ninion. “I fucking hate demons.” Ninion affixed an appropriate look of sorrow on his face. He was getting better at faking expressions, but with the Anchor glowing gently in his palm, Dorian did not know whether he imagined that this one was a little more genuine.

  “I appreciate it now,” he said. Bull sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  The first wave went almost perfectly to plan. The wisps tried to scatter but with Cassandra on one side of the alcove and Bull on the other, the only way out was through their swords. Varric's bolts struck any that did escape with satisfying force. Solas and Dorian dealt with the two shades with ease, alternating ice and fire keeping their attention divided. All in all, they were through them before Solas' barrier had worn off.

  Bull and Cassandra lazily plunged their swords into a couple of the globular manifestations that indicated a spawning demon, dispersing them before they fully formed. About half a dozen more wisps and a rage demon appeared in the second wave. Dorian was just getting ready to send his barrier out to Bull and Cassandra when a hideous, blood-freezing scream smashed against his ears. Without thinking he instinctively threw up his barrier around Ninion and himself just as the thick jet of ice slammed into them, throwing them back. He struggled to his knees and could just make out through the ice splintering against his barrier Cassandra and Bull hacking at the Despair demon's legs, wisps forgotten. It easily danced around their blades, somehow still focusing it's beam on him. His barrier was crumbling around him fast and he had mere seconds before it completely dissipated. Dorian knew that he was the demon's target and, glancing back at Ninion on the ground behind him, made his decision in the instant before his shield shattered.

  He fought to his feet and used the force of the ice beam against the last of his barrier to propel himself to the left, bolting as fast as he could away from Ninion. He only hoped his gamble worked: having been shielded from the blast by Dorian, Ninion had plenty of barrier left, it was better for him to draw the demon's attacks away from the defenceless elf.

  Without stopping to aim properly he fired off a flashfire at the Despair demon, seeing in the corner of his eye the white streak it left in the grass as it tried to catch him in the jet again. He heard the explosion from his attack and turned to see if it had connected when the beam caught his shoulder and sent him spinning to the ground and his staff flying.

  He cried out as his frozen arm struck a rock, a flash of pain that sliced up his neck and into his head. He lay dazed from the blow, aware of the tattered cloak and emaciated limbs of the demon advancing on him, but unable to move. Cassandra and Bull were trying not to get overwhelmed by the scattered wisps and Varric was firing continuously at them while Solas was busy with the Rage demon.

  The demon shrieked and whipped about just as the rift gave a resounding crack and exploded, flooring all the demons. Dorian caught a glimpse of Ninion standing below the rift, arm outstretched and anchor blazing, then scrambled back, his good hand reaching for his staff. Before the Despair demon could recover he gave a roar and pulled a wall of fire from the ground beneath it. He gave it no time to form another attack, sending blast after blast until it was reduced to nothing more than faint green slivers drawn back to the rift.

  “Dorian!” Glancing about at Solas' call he saw that the rest of the demons were gone. Cassandra, Bull and Varric stood around Solas as he crouched by Ninion who was on his knees, curled over his belly, shaking. Dorian flung his staff to the ground and sprinted to them, skidding to a halt on his knees.

  “Ninion?” he gasped. He kept his frozen arm tucked into his chest, but reached out hesitantly to touch Ninion's face. “Are you alright? Talk to me!” Ninion's whole body shook as he grabbed Dorian's wrist and looked up, tears streaming down his face.

  “Dorian! Oh-- Dorian!” The sobs wracked his small frame and he flung his arms around Dorian's neck, making him gasp at the pressure on his arm and the anchor crackling blazing hot against his skin. “Dorian, emma lath, ar lath ma vhenan, I love you so much! Please, don't let me go back to that nothingness!”

  “It's alright!” Dorian held Ninion away from him slightly. “Calm down, you're alright, I have you.”

  “No, I can't go back to that Dorian! I can't! I'd rather the Dread Wolf take me! I'd rather die! Please! I'm begging you!” Ninion's eyes were alight with a near hysterical fear.

  “Ninion, please, we can fix this!" Dorian didn't know how much time they had left. He didn't want to spend it like this. "Solas said this might work and it has! Just hold on a little longer and we can figure out how to reverse this forever!”

  “No!” The ferocity of his cry made Dorian flinch. “No! You would not ask that of me if you knew! Please!”

  “Dorian.” The voice cut reluctantly in and Dorian looked up to see the stricken faces of his companions. Solas' expression was tight as he pointed up at the rift with his staff. The usual, distorted sounds were joined by a deep rumble and a flash of violet lightening curled out from it. They had to close it, now.

  “Ninion, I'm sorry-”

  “No! No, please Dorian! Please-” Dorian gripped the back of Ninion's head and pulled him into a kiss. Their lips pressed greedily against each other, tears flavouring it with their grief. He broke it off as abruptly as he had started it and pressed his forehead against Ninion's.

  “I'm sorry, amatus.” He grabbed Ninion's wrist and thrust the Anchor up. It responded immediately, latching onto the rift with a thick, writhing thread of green to draw it closed. Ninion gasped with his surprise.

  “Dorian--”

  “I'm sorry.” Dorian closed his eyes, unable to bear the betrayal reflected in Ninion's. “I love you.” The Anchor severed the thread with a crack and Ninion went limp in Dorian's arms.

  “Ninion!” The elf stirred slightly then looked up blankly. “Are you alright?”

  “I am well.” His voice was quiet but monotone. “I fear that closing this particular rift has drained me of energy. Perhaps it is because of the momentary reversal of my Tranquility. Ah – you appear distressed. I apologise if I have caused this.” The rift gave a final shudder and burst apart in a shower of green, leaving no trace it had ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you there would be action! lol Sorry I kind of fail at writing fight scenes but I hope it all made sense! 
> 
> *I'm sorry. That was such a cheap joke. But as soon as I knew Dorian was going to say "you can't be serious" I knew it had to be in there


End file.
